


Annan Aldregi

by manic_intent



Series: The Eternity Edda [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Age Reversal, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asgardian!Tony, M/M, Or ex-Weaponsmith, Role Reversal, That AU where Tony is an Asgardian Weaponsmith, Thor Storyline, now retired, though if he really wanted not to be disturbed he probably shouldn't have been hiding in the palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:20:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1520780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is a very bad idea," Loki protests, as Thor leads them both down another flight of dusty steps. </p><p>The stairwell that they're navigating has, by Loki's estimate, already dropped far down past the Archives and even Stasis, where the very worst of Asgardian society is held safe. The only light they have is from the simple conjuring that Loki has wrought from his leystaff, and <i>that's</i> not safe by any means: the easiest way to trip any old leywards that may have lain forgotten down this pathway is to walk over them with a touch of magic. </p><p>Not that his dear brother cares, of course.</p><p>"You say that about everything," Thor retorts, not in the least worried. It's not in Thor's nature to worry about anything: it's quite possibly some sort of evolutionary flaw. Sometimes, sourly, Loki envies him: and considering their parents' wise, measured personalities, on occasion, Loki also wonders if Thor was adopted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Annan Aldregi

**Author's Note:**

> This was a strange ficbunny that wouldn't go away: What if Tony Stark was Asgardian? 
> 
> Originally I considered maybe a play on Anthony (Antonyr? Tyr?) or using the names of one of the famous Old Norse smiths... but in the end, I think 'Stark' itself is probably fairly passable as an Asgardian name, and the last time I mangled a name because a prompt asked for it several people objected, so...

I.

"This is a very bad idea," Loki protests, as Thor leads them both down another flight of dusty steps.

The stairwell that they're navigating has, by Loki's estimate, already dropped far down past the Archives and even Stasis, where the very worst of Asgardian society is held safe. The only light they have is from the simple conjuring that Loki has wrought from his leystaff, and _that's_ not safe by any means: the easiest way to trip any old leywards that may have lain forgotten down this pathway is to walk over them with a touch of magic. 

Not that his dear brother cares, of course.

"You say that about everything," Thor retorts, not in the least worried. It's not in Thor's nature to worry about anything: it's quite possibly some sort of evolutionary flaw. Sometimes, sourly, Loki envies him: and considering their parents' wise, measured personalities, on occasion, Loki also wonders if Thor was adopted.

"Your coronation's in a week," Loki continues, with studied patience, "Do you really want to annoy Father before that happens?" 

"The coronation's a formality," Thor says carelessly, and in the dark behind his golden-haired brother, Loki quietly grits his teeth. Definitely adopted. "I can do what I want. _We_ can do what we want. I thought that we've explored the whole of our palace while we were children, but I've never seen this door before, and neither have you. Therefore, it is our right, nay, our _duty_ , even, to investigate."

Loki sighs. "If we trip a warding-scale and get trapped down here, I suppose that Father could always name one of our many cousins King in your stead."

This doesn't have the dampening effect that Loki has hoped - Thor merely laughs, his voice booming in a disturbing echo up and down the stairwell. "Take heart, brother. I think I see a glow."

"From the staff, you mean?" Loki asks irritably, though as they do another flights, lower and lower, he does dimly see a pale yellow glow, far at the bottom. It feels as though they've been taking the stairs for at least an hour; they'll be near the end of the lowest spire of the Asgardian Palace by now, by his estimates, and irritatingly enough, Loki's starting to grow curious. As Thor picks up the pace, Loki follows, quick on his brother's heels, until eventually they reach the bottom of the stairwell. 

They're in an old, dusty chamber, plain, with the stairwell at one end and a great mithril door set against the other - more mithril than Loki has ever seen in his life. He blinks at it slowly, taking a step forward, then he stiffens and grabs his brother's wrist when Thor starts to stride towards it.

"Warding scale. See that." Loki points at the intricate carving of what looks like a stylised version of Jörmungandr, weaving its way through the dark Void That Was between the realms, each Realm marked by a cunning series of constellation patterns rather than symbols. The warding leys have been hidden neatly within the lines of the patterns. "A stasis rune, I think."

"Our Father's work?" Thor asks, curious now. Runesmithing is a pre-YMIR discipline thought lost to most Asgardians. 

"Probably," Loki notes, if doubtfully. "It does not look like pre-YMIR work. It's been simplified in a way that I do not recognise." 

"Can you..." Thor trails off, though he makes a dismissive gesture at the door. 

"Someday," Loki notes dryly, "You are going to have to learn that I cannot always work miracles. But yes, I can nullify it." 

It takes some delicacy, given where they stand, enclosed in a small chamber with so much rock above them and no leyscale to ground the energies in, but Loki manages to wreathe the breaking of the rune into his leystaff, earthing the rest in the Skaldr blade that his brother carries in his boot. The door creaks and groans as Thor pushes it inward, and they're... they're in a _greatforge_. 

It's a smaller greatforge than the royal one several floors up that crafts weaponry for guard use, but it's still surprisingly advanced, with implements dangling from delicate webs of struts and sleek extensions from the ceiling that Loki can't place, and what looks like a smaller, compact version of an unfinished Herald, strung up like a marionette next to a workbench. Near the greatforge itself, against the shifting, burnished cherry red of the heat from the smelters, an Asgardian turns on his heel with sharp surprise, masked and dressed in the heavy protective apron and headgear of a metalsmith.

There's no markings of rank on his gear, and Loki stares as the Asgardian marches towards them, his stride confident and belligerent rather than fawning. "Muspell's breath! What are the two of you doing here?"

"Ah," Thor's just as taken back as Loki himself is, though he recovers quickly. "Who are _you_?" 

The Asgardian comes to a stop, his thickly gloved fingers twitching, then he sighs and reaches up, dragging off his headgear. Under the heavy protective helmet, the Asgardian looks even smaller than he had seemed; his dark brown hair is streaked with sweat, sticking up at odd angles, and his fierce dark eyes are rimmed a little with red. Whoever the smith is, he is strikingly good looking, exactly Loki's brother's favourite flavour of rough, and Loki sighs inwardly as he watches Thor's grin broaden. 

"The two of you are the princes, aren't you?" the Asgardian frowns at the both of them, oblivious. "Odin's get?"

The careless, almost disrespectful way the Asgardian says this makes Loki stiffen up. "Odin's _heirs_ , yes."

"Did he let you in here, or did you break in... no, you broke in," Dark eyes flick up to Loki's leystaff, then back to his face. "Surprisingly deft work, your _Highness_."

There's sarcasm there, but also a touch of respect, and Loki reins in his temper with a slow nod. "Cunning work, hiding the warding lines in the constellations. Is it yours?"

A shrug. "Sure. It's old, I've always meant to update it. I suppose I'm paying for that now. Why don't the two of you get out of here before your father discovers you've broken into my lab, eh?"

"Tell us your name," Thor prompts, with a brilliant smile that Loki knows has devastated the hearts of men and maidens alike, but the Asgardian merely narrows his eyes, unimpressed. 

"It doesn't matter. Neither of you should be here. I suggest that you leave."

"You're no prisoner," Loki deduces, circling around to approach the Asgardian, his hands clasps behind his back: the Asgardian stares at him quietly, still unafraid, as Loki does a slow circuit around him. "This floor is secret, I presume. You have a personal greatforge on an Aurora Leyline: no one else but the royal family has such resources. And this," Loki glances briefly at the unfinished Herald in its cradle. "The one in the Armory is yours, is it not? An earlier version?"

The Asgardian's jaw sets. "I don't make weapons any longer."

"Hm." Loki pads away to one of the workbenches, casting an eye over the sketches, then he looks back to the greatforge. "You're Master Weaponsmith Stark."

Thor startles, but Stark merely glares back at Loki. "Good guess."

"I never guess. Terrible habit." Loki allows himself a faint, triumphant grin. "Who else could you be? But why are you here, instead of up in the palace greatforge?"

"You've been doing a fair job of _guessing_ so far," Stark shoots back. "Try another one."

"You made Tyrfing, and the Skald Spears; you made Balmung and Lævateinn and more. And then you wanted to retire." Loki clenched the hand he had splayed over the scattered drawings. "I presume that Father did not take that well." 

"Not precisely." Stark shrugs. "But close enough."

"If you truly are Master Weaponsmith Stark," Thor objects, "Surely you are not prisoner here." 

"The stasis rune was on the outside of my door, not inside. _Obviously_ I'm not a prisoner," Stark's tone is acerbic. "But it's equally obvious that I don't want to be disturbed. Can you both go now or do I have to stab either of you repeatedly with pointy implements?"

"You are supposed to be dead," Thor presses. "During the Two Moons War. But you are not." 

"Full marks for stating the obvious," Stark rolls his eyes, then he looks sharply at Loki as Loki hastily hides a faint smile. "I'm glad to see that _someone_ took after Frigg. Please tell me that _you're_ the older son."

"Sorry to disappoint," Loki notes mildly, though he allows himself a faint smile. "My name is Loki, and my brother here is known as Thor. He is due to be named King within the week." 

"Really? I can't say that I'm impressed," Stark waves a hand distractedly, and belatedly looks to Thor's hip. "I see they gave you Mjölnir."

"Your last creation, aye." Thor's expression remains frozen between curiosity and a growing irritation: his temper has ever simmered close to the surface. 

"Fitting," Stark smiles thinly, "An unfinished tool for an unfinished King. Now get out, please, I'm rather busy, and if your father finds out that you're both bothering me he won't be best pleased." 

"What do you mean, _unfinished_?" Thor growls, taking a threatening step forward, waving off Loki as Loki attempts to make a quick grab for his brother's arm. 

"I always mean precisely what I say," Stark snaps back, and his attention darts behind them both, to the door. "Well, _finally_. Get your brats out of here."

"Stark," Odin greets Stark with an odd note of neutrality in his voice, as he sweeps over to Thor's side. "Thor, Loki. Neither of you have any authority to be here."

"No authority?" Thor repeats, incredulous. "Father-"

"Peace," Odin cuts in, iron bucking into his tone, and Thor subsides, even as he flushes with temper. "Now leave this place, and do not return to it." 

Thor straightens up, narrow-eyed, then he storms out of the greatforge, clattering up the steps. Loki hesitates, glancing at Odin and Stark, then he makes as if to follow Thor, stepping lightly up to the stairwell before quickly turning himself invisible once he is out of sight. 

"Those are your brats?" Stark speaks, after a long moment. "I'm not impressed."

"It takes a very great deal to impress you with anything," Odin notes dryly, "Though I think that Loki may change your mind. In some ways, he is very much like you."

"A sharp-tongued troublemaker?" Stark summarises, sounding amused. "Are you truly going to name that golden-haired dolt as your successor?"

"Circumstances," Odin explains cryptically. "He cannot be King."

"He's obviously smarter than his brother, even - or maybe because of - your 'circumstances'."

"He may be more intelligent than Thor, but in many ways his... sense of restraint is just as ill-developed as Thor. And given his intelligence, this may have far more disastrous consequences. Thor is brash, but he is still young by the ways that we count Time, and under everything he has a good heart. He can learn." 

"Or start another Two Moons War," Stark retorts. "Or worse." 

"What will you have me do, old friend?" Odin challenges heavily. "The Odinsleep will be upon me soon, I can feel it. I must name a successor."

"Make Frigg your Queen-Regent. She's better than any of those two. Delay the coronation until either of your boys learn wisdom. However long that might take. I recommend exile," Stark suggests, amused again. "To some backwater planet somewhere. I hear it builds character."

"Do not tempt me," Odin snorts. "How goes your work?" 

Loki steals away up the stairwell while Odin and Stark start to discuss technical matters of which he has little interest or understanding, and at the top, when he emerges from the secret entrance down a forgotten corridor that Thor had found, he finds his brother waiting impatiently. 

"What did you learn?" Thor demands, as they walk away from the door towards the upper regent chambers. 

"Little that we do not already know." Loki says distractedly. What had Odin meant about 'circumstances'? "Stark isn't very impressed with either of us." 

Thor scowls. "Well did I understand _that_." His hand drifts down to Mjölnir's hilt, almost possessively. "It is difficult to accept that he is Mastersmith Stark."

"Genius often goes hand in hand with eccentricity," Loki notes, and Thor thinks this over, his open face clouding, then he finally nods. 

"Yes. You are right." Thor lets out a deep sigh. "Perhaps you were also right to counsel caution, when we were descending down that stairwell."

It's a rare thing to be declared right on two things by Thor, all in the same day, but Loki's too distracted to feel pleased. "Perhaps not. I _am_ interested to know why Mastersmith Stark feigned his death. _And_ what he's now working on." 

"I want to know why he said Mjölnir is unfinished," Thor mutters. "What is your counsel, brother?"

"No doubt Father might be wroth that we have intruded. Be patient with the consequences. Once Father has forgotten about the incident, perhaps we can be more... subtle about a revisit. Find out who else knows about Mastersmith Stark. Ask our mother, perhaps." As Thor evidently struggles with this, Loki points out, "Do you not wish to know more about Mjölnir, at the least?" 

"That is true." Thor concedes, after a long moment. "I will follow your lead."

1.0.

Unsurprisingly, for a descendant of Odin's blood, Thor obviously has his father's stubbornness, and he greets Stark with a lazy, leonine grin when he wanders into the greatforge again after only a few days' peaceful interlude.

"No brother this time?" Stark inquires, barely looking up from the workbench where he's idly sketching a new concept for a short-range Bifrost spinner. 

"Loki is my brother, not my minder." Thor lifts a shoulder into a shrug. 

"I gather that he's not aware that you're here," Stark notes dryly, as Thor ambles over to the workbench, a little too close for comfort. 

Youth is fresh in its prime in the princeling's gorgeously golden smile, his thick and tawny mane, and it has been a very long time since anyone so beautiful has looked at Stark with an expression of such frank and open interest. Stark grits his teeth, dragging his eyes pointedly back to his drawings. Thor is a complication and a temptation that's far too much trouble to be worth. 

"He and my father both think that I am in Muspell," Thor shrugs lightly, shifting his huge shoulders. "Angry about the coronation being indefinitely postponed."

"Not a great holiday destination, what with the lava and the fire monsters," Stark quips, though he lifts his eyebrows. So Thor is possibly a touch more intelligent than Stark had originally placed, if he could have slipped his minders. 

"So I have heard," Thor agrees, smug as anything, and Stark straightens up against his workbench as Thor steps closer. "So," Thor continues, and his voice is pitched lower now, almost into a rumble, "What is wrong with Mjölnir?"

"Nothing. It's fully functional." 

"But unfinished?"

"As I said." Stark thinks that he knows where this is going. He's not entirely sure if he's resigned - or against it. Just to check, he reaches over, runs a thumb pointedly over the blunted edge of the spelled hammer, and grins sharply. "Never got around to adding the last set of leys." 

"And what would that have accomplished?" 

Stark shrugs, even as he tries to breathe, even and slow. He can smell ozone, charging up around them, as Mjölnir heeds its master's mood; unfinished as the hammer is, it has found its natural wielder. "Hopefully? Made the star iron inert. Turned it just into an oddly shaped forgehammer." He taps his nails lightly against the dense storm gray head of the hammer, even as the humour bleeds from his smile. "Turned it from a dealer of death into something that a craftsman could be proud of."

Thor flinches back, his eyes narrowing dangerously, and Stark folds his arms, leaning against the workbench as the smile slips from him entirely. "Why?" Thor asks eventually, and there's curiosity in his tone - that, if anything, prompts honesty from Stark in turn. 

"Guess. Surprise me."

Thor frowns at him, and in a way, that's something interesting in and of itself. Asgard is a near-immortal realm, with convoluted internecine politics despite its absolute monarchy, and it's curious to see a royal-born who wears his emotions on his sleeve - or seems to, at least. There's something fiercely honest about Thor, brash as the princeling is, and if Stark has to admit it, deep down, that's precisely why he's certain that Thor has not the mettle to be King. He's far too honest for it.

"You are a craftsman," Thor says at last, "And you retired after the Two Moons War. Does war disturb you, Mastersmith?"

"Does war excite you, O Prince?" Stark shoots back, and despite himself he can't keep the bitterness out of his tone: it makes Thor blink, and then the belligerence seems to fade - the princeling smiles, a rare and honest open grin that pulls an uncomfortable little twinge deep in Stark's chest. 

"I will respect your craftsmanship, even if I received it without your blessing," Thor pats at the short haft of Mjölnir at his hip. "And I respect its original purpose: not as a weapon, but as a tool."

"Really," Stark says, surprised.

"You've made blades and spears to date: this is your first and only hammer," Thor points out. "I had my pick of the royal armoury, of which much was your work, and it was this that I chose. Because a King should wield a craftsman's tool."

"A sword speaks diplomacy with its edge," Stark notes, quoting an old edda, amused all over again, "A hammer builds."

"Aye, that it does." Thor grins, and no, this son of Odin does have a little of Frigg in him after all. "A hammer builds." 

The echo of his own words shakes him deep, to his own surprise, and Stark sighs, forcing himself to let go of a little of his caution. "If you're hells bent on bothering me, I suppose I do have some ale about here somewhere. Let's drink to your indefinite Princelingship." 

Thor laughs, not in the least offended, humour bright and honest in his eyes; far too young and handsome and elemental for rule. "I would prefer a different toast, Mastersmith. To a new friendship, perhaps?"

"That is a very great presumption, O Prince," Stark notes dryly, though he finds himself looking for the ale anyway.

II.

Odin postpones the coronation indefinitely, and as much as this evidently infuriates Thor, he confines his temper tantrum to an unsuspecting mountain range out in Muspell. Loki waits, patient. This is better than his original plans to prank Thor by opening a secret way from Jotunheim to Asgard.

When he deems an appropriate time to have passed, he sneaks down the passageway and into the stairwell, back towards Stark's greatforge. The rune on the door has not been replaced, rather to Loki's surprise, and in the greatforge, Stark is tinkering with a squat, egg-shaped device, so black in hue that it looks as though it has sucked the light out from the room around it, mired in a nest of leyscale cabling and struts. 

"Now what?" Stark asks over his shoulder, and Loki hesitates, checking his spellwork. "I know that you're there. Loki, wasn't it?"

"Did I trip a ward?" Loki asks, curious, as he makes himself visible.

"Three." Stark concedes. "Two in the stairwell. What do you want?"

Loki hesitates. The conversation that he had overheard has weighed on his mind since, but now that he's actually faced with Stark, he's not entirely sure what to say. Finally, he concedes, "Have you known my family for long?"

"Your... oh, you mean Odin and Frigg? Sure." Stark says carelessly, naming the High King and Queen of the Realms as though they were just anyone of any blood. "Why?"

"How long?"

"Before you and the other princeling were born," Stark straightens up from the egg-shaped device with an exasperated look. "So what? Quite a few Asgardians do. You want baby stories? Ask Heimdall. I kept the Hells away from the two of you. Busy in the greatforge. I'm not quite fond of brats until they get past the squalling and throwing-up-on-others stage." 

Loki nods slowly. The records indicate that the 'late' Master Weaponsmith Stark had been part of Odin's Inner Council: albeit an often inexplicably absent member of the Council. His had been one of only two votes - including Frigg's - that had voted against violently crushing the Two Moons rebellion. 

"Were you better friends with Mother than with Father?"

This time, Stark scowls. "Your point being?" 

"Nothing in particular," Loki smirks, and as he thought, Stark's scowl merely deepens. "The two of you used to vote similarly on many policy matters. Your seat on the Council is still open."

"So is Villi's, and he's definitely dead. Your father is an Asgardian who lives forever in hope," Stark drawls, deliberately insulting, but Loki merely smiles lightly in response. Eventually, as he had hoped, Stark scowls again. "What do you want?"

"Teach me warding." 

"It's not a matter of doodling chickenscratch on the ground, or making people see pink feylings where there isn't any." 

"So teach me," Loki challenges, but Stark merely studies him thoughtfully. 

"What do you _really_ want, princeling?" 

"Do you think that I want more?"

"If you want to learn warding," Stark taps at his workbench impatiently, "There are better teachers out there. Your uncle Vé, for example. You want something else. You're far too smart for your own good, and you get bored too easily. I think that you're pestering me because you're bored, not because you're interested in anything that I can teach you."

"Maybe I'm pestering you because I need someone else who can keep up to talk to," Loki counters, "And Mother is busy with State affairs."

"Help her out then," Stark retorts, though he seems to waver a fraction. "You want to rule? Then prove that you can rule."

"Does it matter? My brother will be King, regardless of merit." That comes out sharper than Loki intended.

"He may be King," Stark points out evenly, "But Kings have Councils, and a good King will listen to his advisors - if they have proven experience and wit. Besides, who knows? Your brother is to be Prince indefinitely. Perhaps if you prove yourself, things will change."

"Perhaps," Loki narrows his eyes, "If I knew what were the precise 'circumstances' that stood between myself and the throne other than age."

Stark stiffens, his lip curling briefly, then he lets out a forced laugh, even as his eyes narrow. "I should have known. Well. That's between yourself and your father, Loki. Now if you want to stay here, make yourself useful. How good are you at etching mithril?"

"Never tried it."

"Good! Maybe if you melt your fingers off, you'll leave me alone."

2.0.

"My brother has been here to see you, often," Thor notes, as he studies a freshly etched set of mithril staves on another workbench. For all of Loki's sharp tongue at least the prince is a deft hand with delicate tools and a quick learner: his work would grow passing fair with practice.

"And so?" Stark inquires, irritable and sweating from a failed experiment with new star iron alloys. Part of his new smelter is in ruins, caked over and still bubbling, and he's stripping off a blackened smith's apron. 

"I may be jealous," Thor offers, though his tone is amused as he steps over to help Stark with the apron. Stark freezes for a moment before he stiffly allows the aid, and when the blackened plates are peeled off, he tries not to feel self-conscious under Thor's thoughtful stare. The ark scale embedded into the middle of his chest glows in a low pulse, seated within a webbing of scars like a gaudy, circular spider. 

Stark turns to get a robe, but Thor's hand drifts to his elbow and holds firm. "From the Two Moons War?" Thor asks softly. 

"Obviously," Stark says tightly.

"You were battling the Sutrfalken," Thor recalls, "And you fell to them... they truly did cut out your heart?"

He has to suck in a slow, harsh breath. "If you must know, aye. _And_ ate it in front of me. Not a pleasant experience." 

"This work... it is Heimdall's?" 

"Your mother's work, actually. Heimdall doesn't have the imagination for this kind of lateral thinking." Stark grimly held Thor's eyes. "I begged her to let me die while she was binding it to me. It took her _days_ , and she ignored me all the way. Your father and Heimdall held me down." 

This time, Thor's gaze drops, and he flushes slowly, even as he carefully lets go of Stark's arm. "Does it yet hurt?"

"No. Not usually." Stark quickly shrugs into a robe, doing the clasp up at his neck, only to freeze as Thor turns him around, oddly gentle, big hands curling on his hips under the robe. "Thor."

"Does it yet hurt?" Thor repeats, and his thumb is pressing lightly along the rim of the ark scale; the trapped energy of the elemental core within it twists lightly, reacting to Thor's odd kinship with star iron, and Stark sucks in a sharp breath. 

Thor's hand stills instantly, but when Stark says nothing, he rubs his thumb lightly up the starglass dome, and it feels like... it feels like a straight up shot of skryfing fever, like the pure rush of a summer wind howling up the spirescapes of Asgard, like feyfire that burns and does not consume. Stark's dimly aware that he's grasping at Thor's cloak, gasping, dragging at Thor's shoulders, and then they're sharing a kiss, shaky at first, then rough as Stark gets his sooty fingers into Thor's tawny golden mane to drag him into a hungry kiss that is every flavour of wrong. 

"I'm almost old enough to be your father," Stark grunts, when Thor lets them up for air, and when Thor grins sharply and nuzzles at his cheek, protests half-heartedly, "Thor-"

"It seems that my family may have wronged you," Thor whispers distractingly into his ear, "And we always pay our debts." 

"This isn't how I-" Thor cuts him off with another kiss, lazy this time, lifting Stark up easily with impossible strength to balance him against a workbench, rumbling into a low growl when Stark reluctantly wraps his arms around Thor's great shoulders. "You're going to be in so much trouble if your father catches you here." 

"Father thinks that I am in Vanaheim," Thor concedes, with a playful wink that makes Stark roll his eyes and relax a little.

"Do I want to know how you managed _that_?"

"Mm. It seems like a waste of time to explain," Thor kisses the apex of the ark dome, and Stark shivers, badly stifling a whine as another shock of energy courses through him, impossibly, a pulse of white-hot pleasure in his veins. "May we take this elsewhere?"

"What makes you think I want it to move anywhere?"

Thor snorts, without looking up, brushing another kiss over the dome. "I may not be as clever as my brother, Mastersmith, but I _do_ know when someone is watching me. Shall we?"

For all his youth and his brashness, Thor is surprisingly gentle once he manhandles Stark into the narrow cot that Stark keeps in the corner of the greatforge, which creaks alarmingly under their shared weight. Armour and robes and boots take forever to shuck, and then - it's been a while, but the body remembers. He has Thor spread on the bed, with his mouth to Thor's impressive cock; it fits, barely, and it's brutal on his throat as he swallows down and sucks and lets Thor buck up and choke him, Hells, it's so _good_. Stark has missed this, missed intimacy, missed the hitching whispering gasps of another person under his hands, missed _pleasure_.

Thor's youth shows quickly in his impatience: in no time at all he pulls back, dragging Stark up onto the bed and rolling them around, grinning his beautiful and leonine grin as he kisses him, whiskery and all unbroken coiled energy; lust is so honest in the touch of his roughened fingers and the bristle of his kisses as he sucks a path down Stark's throat. 

They end up grinding against each other, their cocks wet with spit and then more as their flesh catches against each other with a sweet friction, caught in Thor's large hand, his long tapering fingers, his lips pressed and gasping against Stark's neck when he tenses up and finally spills. Then Thor grins, a lazy and far too smug grin, as he leans down to lick a long stripe up the ark's dome, and Stark comes and comes and comes with a scream. 

"You have an affinity to the storm," Stark murmurs at the end, his voice rasping and wrecked, curled against Thor's too-warm frame, the bed groaning whenever they shift even slightly. Quite possibly, a structural collapse is imminent. "That's why you chose Mjölnir." 

Thor shrugs, pressed against him, chin tucked over Stark's head. "The star iron felt right." 

"It knows you," Stark concedes drowsily. "It wasn't complete before because it had no master. Now it is." 

Long fingers rise to his shoulder, then stroke down his arm, comfortingly. "Rest assured that I will try my best to heed the original wishes of its maker." 

"I want to believe you," Stark admits, "But I don't think that I can." Thor is young, and the blood of a House of War is in his veins, for all that Odin has mellowed over the centuries. 

"Let me convince you," Thor promises, and kisses Stark lightly over the forehead, beautifully and shockingly tender.

III.

Loki should have known that something was amiss when Stark emerged from his greatforge on the Winter's Tide, to surprisingly little fanfare and gossip: the Mastersmith simply slipped back into heading the palace greatforge as though he had never left.

He suspected something when Stark began to interact with Sif and the Warriors Three, occasionally riding out with them to Vanaheim, especially if Thor wasn't present. Stark had wit and charm enough when he wanted to, and the Warriors Three, at least, were a friendly sort. 

But Loki only knows that he had missed something all along when Thor abruptly disappeared one evening, and when looking for him on his mother's behest, a whim had Loki check the Sundered Falls an hour's ride from the palace, an old and stepped set of falls that drove out into space, broken during the Two Moons War and never repaired. He had woven invisibility around himself, and nearly dropped it when he heard Stark's laughter.

Loki is glad that he did not - his brother and Stark were sitting on the edge of stone, near the thundering falls that roared out from a subterranean well, and his brother's arm is curled possessively around Stark's waist. Thor's face is oddly soft in a way Loki had never seen it, and Stark's laughter is very nearly joyous, with none of the bitterness that Loki was used to.

It is strange. 

And then Thor leans close, to brush his lips up along Stark's jaw, affectionate rather than hungry, and that is when matters all fall into place. Loki steps away, quiet, his mind brimming with shock and anger and plans. 

So. His brother, and Stark. 

Yet another matter in which his brother's natural status has given him precedence. 

It's spite that has him open a tear through slipspace between Jotunheim and Asgard, and circumstances proceed as he had thought - a snarling, public argument between Stark and Thor in the Askr Terrace, surrounded by the dumbfounded Warriors Three and Sif, who tries and fails to get either of them to calm down. It is spite that has Loki whisper the first words of poison into his brother's ear, when Stark has stormed out, that instigates Thor to ride to Jotunheim and all that follows after, and then-

And then he _knows_. The very 'circumstance' that will put the High Throne forever beyond his reach. The 'circumstance' that had turned Stark away from the beginning: just like his father's 'love', Stark's friendship had always been a lie. 

He has his vengeance quickly. Thor is banished from Asgard, and as Loki thought, Stark is quick to follow in Thor's wake, for all his angry words in the Terrace. It takes a confrontation with Odin to push his tired father into the Odinsleep, and then... and then it will all fall into place. And perhaps someday, power and all it brings with it will be enough to salve all the bitterness that he feels for everything that he has never been able to have.

3.0.

Stark has been to Midgard once, when he was younger, and at Frigg's instigation. Little seems to have changed to endear him to the backwater planet, and he seems to have been deposited in some sort of Gods-forsaken hellshole of sand and storm and heat. He is considerably irritated by the time he accidentally stumbles on some sort of anthill of Midgardians organised around a structure that looks fairly temporary, and then it occurs belatedly to Stark that he probably should have taken along more of his devices. The concussive gloves don't discourage the Midgardians in the least, despite Stark's attempts to disengage and retreat, and in the end, to his exasperation, he actually gets restrained.

At least the Allspeak implant within his ears are still functional, embarrassing as it is to have been overpowered by Midgardians. "So where are you from?" One of the Midgardians has been trying to pry answers out of Stark for an hour, and Stark has been growing bored. "Hammer? Blackwater? Hydra? I've never seen tech like your gloves before. Our engineers say that they can't even begin to understand how the power source works."

What was Asgard's restriction against accidentally providing technology to the natives again? Ah yes. Midgardians had a depressing tendency to take well-meaning technological aid and turn it into conduits for war. Stark smiles and mentally switches Allspeak one-way. "Greetings, mortal," he tries dryly.

"What, you don't speak English?" the Midgardian frowns at him. A small, fussy-looking man, in an oddly black and white coloured outer wear: boring, like much of Midgard is boring. "What was that? Icelandic?"

"You look like a penguin," Stark continues, because he does vaguely remember some of his last trip to this awful planet, "And you chirp like one too."

The Midgardian's hand jumps to his ear, as though he is listening to some one speak - implant tech, already? - then he scowls. "Very funny. Look. It's obvious that you and that damned immovable hammer are related. Your gloves have sigils along the side, the hammer has a sigil on one side." 

Stark makes the mistake of rolling his eyes - the Midgardian pounces. "I _knew_ that you understood English!"

"Fine." Stark switches the Allspeak back to dual. "Sorry, I'm fairly sure that this has all been a misunderstanding. None of your companions were injured, were they? I was trying to be careful."

"That's the only reason why you're still alive," the Midgardian scowls. "Now, are you going to talk?"

Stark finds himself patiently trying to explain that 'sigils' doesn't mean that certain items are related to each other, when of course Thor breaks into the compound, with his usual total lack of subtlety, judging from the sudden deluge that roars down around them. Mjölnir knows its master, even with the curse that Odin had writ upon it. Stark sighs, and waits, and eventually, the Midgardian returns.

"We have your friend," he begins by saying, and Stark arches an eyebrow. 

"Who?"

"Blonde body-builder, this tall, blue eyes, endearing approach to boundaries?" the Midgardian continues mildly. "Ring a bell?"

"What bell?" 

"Don't play games with me," the Midgardian snaps. "What do the two of you want with the hammer?"

"I'm not here for the hammer," Stark says truthfully. "You can keep it, as far as I'm concerned, and I made the damned thing." A thought occurs to him, belatedly. "It didn't work for him?"

"Nope. He gave it a good shot, after he blew through all my security. Why?"

"Good," Stark decides, even as the thought twists a little within him. Unintentionally, Odin has done what Stark has always wanted to. "That's good." 

He lets the Midgardian yammer on until he gets bored, then he loses track of time a little. They feed him Midgardian food, which is, Stark supposes, not bad, and although the sanitation facilities are primitive they are fairly adequate. The Midgardian - known as Coulson - visits him twice a day, usually to talk about things that Stark is disinterested in. 

"Where is the other one?" Stark asks one day, curious.

"We let him go. Some other people showed up for him. They didn't mention you," Coulson notes blandly. 

Well, that was discouraging. "You did not mention me to him?" 

"Should we have?"

Stark shrugs. "It doesn't matter either way," he says, as casually as he can, even as the thought of it starts to get depressing. So Thor isn't aware that he is here... and besides, the last words that they exchanged were angry ones. Following Thor to Midgard had been a rash decision, and Stark was old enough to know that rash decisions were seldom the best ones. 

He _had_ half expected Thor to show up when Mjölnir activated and charged up into the atmosphere, in a surge of wind and force that threw the human encampment into disarray, but nothing happened, not for a day spent impatiently pacing around his cell, and only at the end of it did Coulson reappear.

"Your friend left first, in some sort of... wormhole," Coulson begins by opening the door to the cell wide and stepping aside. "I'm sorry. You're free to go."

"Well, this has been a waste of time," Stark notes dryly, though the Midgardians decide to keep his gloves. He doesn't care, trekking far enough out into the desert that he's sure that a Bifrost connection won't hurt anyone, then calling for Heimdall. 

Somehow, it's utterly unsurprising that Heimdall doesn't respond. 

After an hour of shouting himself hoarse, Coulson trots over to where Stark is sitting on a rock, exhausted. "Technical problems?"

"You could say that," Stark admits wryly, then sighs, and gets to his feet. "Stark. My name is Stark."

"Well, Mister Stark," Coulson notes, glancing up into the empty sky, "My boss has an employment proposition for you, if you've got nowhere else to go. We'll keep an outpost here on watch, in case your friend comes back." 

Ah, why not. It isn't as if he _does_ have anything else to do. "I only work for people who impress me," he decides, with a tired grin.

"Thankfully," Coulson continues in his usual, dry voice, "That happens to be a specialty of Director Fury."

Director Fury does turn out to be a surprisingly impressive Midgardian, and despite his initial instincts, Stark concedes to the 'offer of employment'. He supposes that he can identify with _some_ aspects of the Midgardian initiative known as SHIELD, though he is adamant that none of his work will be weaponised. Life goes on, and it's not boring, but still. 

On most clear nights, Stark sits on a balcony high up in the Triskelion, and watches the sky. He's still waiting.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading...! I was going to write more, into the Avengers storyline and blah, but I got tired. Talk to me on twitter @manic_intent if you have more Tony/Thor ideas! Sometimes ficbunnies catch on. :3
> 
> Note: yes I'm aware how the arc reactor is spelled :3 the ark scale is a different thing...


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